


A Christmas Eve Reunion

by Londonlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Post Reichenbach, Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2013-01-06
Packaged: 2017-11-23 21:05:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/626508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Londonlock/pseuds/Londonlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock returns to 221b after three months of "death" to tie up loose ends with Sebastian Moran. What he doesn't bargain on is having to break the truth to John at the same time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Christmas Eve Reunion

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another reunion fic. Enjoy! And comment. Always comment.

_He isn't answering his phone. -MH_

_Dammit, Mycroft. Persuade him. -SH_

_I've tried. Do you_ want _me to make a scene? I'm tired of babysitting him. The man can take care of himself. -MH_

_You promised you'd keep him safe. -SH_

_Keep him safe, yes. Not act as his therapist or his nanny. -MH_

_I need you to get him out of the flat tonight. I'm almost done. -SH_

_In that case, get him out of the flat yourself. -MH_

_...Mycroft. You know I can't do that. -SH_

_Sherlock. You're being unreasonable. There's no reason to keep him in the dark any longer. -MH_

_You're simply afraid. -MH_

* * *

The light faded steadily in 221B Baker street, the lace curtains casting a dim shadow over the sleeping face of John Watson. His phone had finally stopped buzzing, allowing him to drift off. Mycroft had evidently given up on coaxing John out of his haunt. 

John stirred slightly where he had fallen asleep on his chair at the sound of footsteps on the threshold, but did not wake, passing them off as part of a dream. 

“John, wake up,” a voice said. John felt himself coming to. That voice...

“John. John!”

John was fairly certain he was still dreaming. For one, it felt as though strong hands—hands reminiscent of a certain deceased consulting detective—were shaking his shoulder forcefully. For another, he could hear Sherlock's voice clearly in his ears. He opened his eyes resentfully, pushing “Sherlock's” hand away.

“God, John Watson,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. “Your dreams get stranger every day.”

In the dream, Sherlock knelt in front of him, almost as though in prayer. “John, you must get up,” the apparition repeated urgently. The voice, the reality of the situation cut John Watson to the core. 

“No, please,” he said, addressing the apparition, which was now attempting to pull him from his seat. “Really,” he said, “this day has already been a hard one. Leave me be.” John shook his head and turned over in his chair, placing his hands over his ears. 

“John, it's me, it's Sherlock,” Sherlock's muffled voice became clear as the long-fingered hands pried John's own away from his ears.

John shook his head again. “Now really, stop. It'll only make it worse when I wake up.”

“Wake up? John, what are you—”

“All right, stop it, now!” John raised his voice, giving the apparition an almighty shove. _For a dream, this felt oddly substantial_ , John thought. _In fact..._

John was just teetering on the brink of considering that this might possibly be reality, when Sherlock slapped him clean across the face. 

That was real.

John was alert. In an instant, he leaped up, squatting on his chair. In a fluid movement, he picked his gun up off the side table. Sherlock's eyes widened in alarm from where he knelt on the ground. 

“All right, what the _hell_ is going on?” John said, his voice taught. Emotion stung the back of his throat. 

Sherlock raised both hands in the air, still kneeling. “John, put the gun down. It's me. It's Sherlock. I'm alive.” Sherlock's deep voice elegantly punctuated the air.

“No,” John said shortly, shaking his head. “No, you're not. You're dead. I saw you fall. I saw your _bloody remains_ on the ground in front of my eyes. I remember.” His voice quavered as the image flared to life in his mind. This was one he had tried to suppress.

Sherlock, for once, seemed to be grappling for words, his features jumping about as though unable to decide upon a suitable emotion. “John, don't be an idiot,” he snapped finally, face flickering in annoyance. “I'm here, you can see me. And I'm obviously not dead as I'm speaking to you now, so put the gun away.”

John shut his eyes, inhaling slowly. “Is it really you?” He asked, flat. 

“Yes,” Sherlock answered impatiently. 

Slowly, ever so slowly, John lowered the gun. As his eyes drew open, tears gathered in their depths. Embarrassed, John stared off into a corner, not meeting Sherlock's eyes.

“How?” He asked shortly.

Sherlock stood. “It's quite a story, John, but right now, you need to get out of here. Hide. Go up to your room or some—” Sherlock froze, quite suddenly, his eyes glazed over in that way that they did when he had just made an important connection. John's gaze flickered to him. For a moment, everything was still.

A single gunshot rang out as Sherlock dived for John, pulling him to the ground. Glancing upward, John saw the bullet hole, a clean, round circle in the window pane right in front of where John's head had just been.

“Bloody hell, Sherlock—”

“Shh,” Sherlock said distractedly.

“No. What's going—”

“Shh!”

The pair lay still for a full minute, Sherlock's hand gripping John's shoulder. 

A stair creaked. 

“John,” Sherlock whispered in his ear, “I want you to hide. Quickly. Stay low.”

John didn't question. He maneuvered silently, retrieving his discarded gun as he took up position, hidden in the dark kitchen behind the folding glass doors.

“All right,” Sherlock said loudly, rising from the floor, “as son as you've finished sneaking up the staircase, there's an empty chair here,” Sherlock called out the door. In one fluid motion, he dropped himself, purple oxford and all into his chair.

A man bloomed out of the shadows onto 221B's living room threshold. He was tall and blonde, with a 5 o'clock shadow and cold, calculating eyes. John watched as Sherlock's coal black pupils flickered to the man's sizable weapon. “Entertainment, Moran?” He asked. 

The man called Moran ignored this. “Where is he?” He said coldly.

“He is none of your concern,” Sherlock said, gazing around the flat as though Moran barely captured his attention. 

“I have instructions.”

“Oh, don't you think it'd just be quicker to finish me off now?” Sherlock asked petulantly. 

“I intend to. Dr. Watson,” Moran raised his voice, “come out of hiding now or I put a hole in Mr. Holmes. I'm counting. One...”

“Stay where you are, John,” Sherlock's eyes burned with intensity, his gaze now fixed on the weapon pointed directly at the steepled fingers in front of his heart.

“Two.”

John watched a crease form as Sherlock anticipated John's next move. “John, don't—”

John Watson stepped out from behind the door, a sliver of lamplight from the street falling on his worn face through a gap in the curtains. In his steady hands, the browning rested.

“Drop it,” said Moran. John's eyes flickered from Moran's weapon to Sherlock's heart. The gun clattered to the floor. “Good.” 

Moran shot at John Watson.

“No!” Sherlock's shout matched the crack of the bullet as John fell to the floor, gasping. Out of the corner of his eye, John perceived Sherlock leaping from his chair, his large fists connecting with Moran's head. Moran fell, but Sherlock didn't stop beating until the man was broken beyond repair. 

“John—” Sherlock turned, his irises chips of blue flame. Three long strides brought him sinking to his knees as he began searching for a wound on John's chest. 

“How does it feel?” John asked weakly.

Sherlock's nimble fingers skipped over John's chest. “John, where did it hit?”

“I said, how does it feel?” John asked, his voice stronger, more defined. 

“What? No, that's what I'm asking you, where does it hurt?” Sherlock asked, pausing in his fruitless search.

“Thinking your best friend is dead, I mean. How do you like it?” John said, propping himself up on his arms without any trouble.

Sherlock stilled in his calculating way. John could almost see him replaying the last ten seconds in his head, saw him form his conclusion as he reviewed the footage: the movement of Moran's gun, John anticipating Moran's move, ducking out of the way just in time to send the bullet speeding over his shoulder, a hair's breadth away. 

Sherlock cursed, muttering to himself. “Stupid. Focused on Moran, didn't see—”

“You didn't _observe,_ ” John interjected.

“Oh, shut up, John.” Sherlock said, rocking backward on his feet, removing his hands from John's chest. “That wasn't nice,” he added after a moment's reflection. John rose, his smug expression sliding off his face before it gained any purchase.   

John's face grew serious. “What the hell were you thinking,” he asked dryly, “letting me believe you were dead—”

“Oh, we're back to that, now, are we?” Sherlock interrupted, indifferent.

“Sherlock—” 

“I did it for your own good. Moriarty's men would have killed you.”

John shook his head, rising to his feet. “No, Sherlock,” he said firmly. “I know you. That phone call?” John's eyebrows arched. “Was that 'necessary to my survival?'”

“Well, I...” Sherlock met John's eye with an expression that was almost ashamed. “I _did_ want to do the thing properly.” Sherlock stood slowly, his demeanor slipping back to businesslike.” But really, if I had known it was going to upset you so much, I—” Sherlock took a step toward John.

John reacted instantly. “No!” he shouted, shoving Sherlock's thin frame. “No, Sherlock! Enough! This time, I won't forgive you!” John's finger stabbed at the ground as though to send Sherlock to hell. “I don't care what Moriarty made you do. You are a sick, heartless, cold show-off and—”

The slope of Sherlock's shoulders relaxed under his oxford. In an instant, he stepped forward and wrapped his wiry arms around John Watson, pulling his head into Sherlock's chest. For a moment, it seemed John would resist, but at last, he thawed. John's hands rose to grip Sherlock's arms, tears tracking a silent, silvery course down both faces. They stayed like that for a moment, frozen on forbidden ground.

“Bastard,” John muttered. Sherlock sniffed as a chuckle escaped his chest. 

Just like that, the moment dissolved. They pulled away, neither meeting the other one's eye. After a moment of standing there awkwardly, John crossed the room and lifted his black jacket from it's hook. 

“Where are you going?” Said sherlock, surprised. 

“What? Oh, Greg's throwing a Christmas Eve party,” John said. “Might as well go.”

“Oh,” said Sherlock. 

A pause.

“So...see you in the morning? That is, if you're staying...” John let the question hang.

“Oh, yes. Yes, of course.” Sherlock said. They stared at each other for an unbroken second.

“Unless you want to come with—” John began.

“Yes,” Sherlock said.

The awkwardness stretched until the laugher of the two men broke it. Still chuckling, they prepared to go, John retrieving his phone from under Sherlock's chair, Sherlock twining his scarf round his neck.

“Best deal with him right away.” John motioned to the bloody corpse in the doorway. 

Sherlock bit his lip. Turning on his heel, he disappeared into his room, returning a moment later with a sheet. He tossed it carelessly over Moran's slack face, hastily scrawling a note to Mrs. Hudson that it should be left undisturbed.

“Speaking of Mrs. Hudson, how are we going to break your...return to her?” John wondered as they crossed the threshold.

“We won't have to worry about that until tomorrow. Her long coat wasn't hanging in it's usual place, meaning...” Sherlock's voice faded away down the stairs.

The door shut with a click that echoed through the flat. Christmas eve settled in silence upon 221 B Baker street, the renewed home of the consulting duo.


End file.
